


The Still Point

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: A possible explanation for why Claude dislikes Alois so much, Angst, Contemplation, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:31:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7250242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ch. 1: Claude made a contract with Alois Trancy—not the sniveling child who was (still is) Jim Macken. </p><p>Ch. 2: Alois remembers a kiss.</p><p>At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;<br/>Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is.<br/>- T.S. Eliot</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Without Motion

There is something so pitifully frail about his young master that Claude can’t help but despise him. He wants Alois Trancy’s soul—not Jim Macken, the common little boy sold into sexual corruption. Claude would gracefully bow and serve _Lord Trancy_ the same way that blasted crow fawns over _his_ young charge—the Phantomhive soul. Michaelis and his aesthetics—the perfect butler facade. A vaudeville for one. 

Claude once enjoyed a similar role some centuries ago—as tutor and later, advisor, to the man now revered as Casimir the Great. Claude had served kings and warriors and Machiavellian scholars. He had led armies under the banner of Cesare Borgia and delighted in Dante Alighieri’s shrewd portrayal of hell and all its torments. Claude thrived on the souls of men who steered towards the cadaverous limbo of transformation—relishing how some humans longed for twisted limbs and mangled flesh in order to emerge as something greater. Something _more._

It was why he had taken Jim Macken into his spider’s web, seeing in him—for the briefest of moments—a hint of gilded grandeur. In the pale morning light, Jim Macken’s arctic blue eyes had frozen over with hate and raw conviction and— _it was magnificent._ That was the first and only time Claude would have genuinely followed Alois anywhere—done anything, resolved any task—because the princeling who stood before him, bathed in cloudy pearlescent light, was a nobleman with all the makings of a wretched, beautiful Adonis.

His soul was so malleable then, so willing to bend and flow like the curves of a silver river.

_“You shall be my Claude.” Alois’s voice rang with the weighty scepter of command. It was liquified gold, bloodied by vermillion rubies. “Serve me, demon,” his master commanded, pale blonde hair gleaming, “and I will reward you with everything I have.”_

_And from the brazen gold trimmed shadows, in a pool of fiery obsidian, Claude emerged, sunglow eyes glittering. Dressed in the uniform befitting a butler, he bowed low, right hand across his chest as he knelt before his little lord. “I am ever yours to command…your highness.”_

_“You will be my champion in all things. In_ **_everything._ ** _I will have my vengeance and you, Claude, will bring me their heart.”_

_Vicious. Broken._ **_Beautiful._ **

_Claude smiled. “On a dinner plate, your highness,_ **_this I promise you._ ** _”_

It was to _Alois Trancy_ that Claude had pledged his fealty—the macabre, angel-faced prince who spoke so monstrously and hated so vehemently. That was the boy Claude wanted. Not this.

Not this sniveling, simpering _child_ who yearned—so desperately—for the love of a mere _servant._ When Claude had once advised against his lord Borgia—the man who captured Forli and conquered legends—he had been reprimanded by forty stinging lashes to the back and an order to remain at the bottom of the Tiber until daybreak.

Now, Claude must hold in his arms a whimpering peasant who clutches at his perfectly stitched suit jacket, tears soaking the fine wool material, and mouth kissing the soft cotton of Claude’s shirt. “Don’t leave me— _please,_ don’t you ever leave me.” The boy begs, looking up at him with shimmering blue eyes. “Don’t you leave me, Claude—don’t you _ever!_ ”

He repeats this routine at least once a week. Claude has perfected it to a science—at least once a week, on either Tuesday or Sunday, his master will wake up screaming and sobbing and crying his name. _Claude, Claude, Claude!_ And he will be present in that darkened chamber, handkerchief in hand, wiping away the child’s tears and being forced, rather insensibly, to hold the boy in his arms. Jim Macken would clamber onto the demon’s lap, head resting on Claude’s chest, and lithe fingers gripping at either the butler’s jacket or the sin-black locks of Claude’s hair.

Jim Macken tries to make himself as small as possible, curling into a fetal position as his slim thighs clamp together and he rocks his body towards Claude. “Don’t leave me. Say you won’t.”

Tonight is a Sunday.

Claude, using a lace edged handkerchief, wipes away his master’s tears. “I shall stay by your side for as long as necessary. Never will I desert you without your consent.” _Without your soul._

The boy relaxes, grip loosening though Claude knows his lapel will need ironing later on. “Tell me something lovely. Tell me a story.” Little Jim Macken commands. (Begs.)

For a second, Claude considers leaving the boy—light a candle by his bedside and allow Hannah to coddle and fuss over him. _A lost cause…one that started out with such promise._

“What story would you like to hear, your highness?”

The child sniffles, the sound audible in the still silence. _A street urchin._

“Please,” he whispers, “tell me one about a knight—no, a _prince._ A prince who falls in love with a knight.”

From the corner of his eye, Claude can see the faintest hints of violet—a premonition of dawn. _Well, no matter._ He posits reluctantly. _It shall be me fighting Michaelis anyhow. The boy can rest._ And, should everything come together tomorrow afternoon, then this ridiculous suffering will all have been worth it. 

Glancing down at his master, Claude smiles a deliciously sly smile—one meant for slaughter, not comfort. “Very well, your highness.” He begins, soft and dangerous. “Once, not so long ago, in an ancient palace of pale white stone, there was a prince of golden radiance who longed for the love of a sable knight…”

_And so it went._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Casimir the Great: king of Poland from 1333 to 1370. Casimir had inherited a weak kingdom and transformed it into a European powerhouse of wealth and conquest. He was known as the Polish Justinian and made vast improvements in the economy and legal system. (This, I think, keeps in line with Claude's aesthetic: taking something less and transforming it into something more.)
> 
> \- “On a dinner plate”…quote lifted from one of my all-time favorite shows, The Borgias. (Said by Cesare, who promised that should Lucrezia’s husband mistreat her, he would carve the man's heart out with a dinner knife. And, unlike Claude, Cesare actually did kill Lucrezia’s good for nothing husband and brought her a knife soaked in his blood.)
> 
> A/N: Tbh, I’ve always been very curious as to why Claude seemed to despise Alois, his employer/master, so much. And as I was contemplating this puzzling enigma, I just decided to write my own headcanon. Demons—really old ones—probably make hundreds of contracts and Alois is just a drop in an endless bucket of souls. Claude’s displeased reaction at getting a sentimental child instead of the bloodthirsty earl he was hoping for probably contributed to his distaste of Alois. In any case, we’ll probably never know why Claude seemed so apathetic towards his butler role. Ah well.
> 
> (Reviews would be lovely ^^)


	2. Stasis Collapsing

When Alois first assumed the role of Earl Trancy, he’d suffered a series of panic attacks that, in effect, left him tempestuous and caustic. He tormented Hannah relentlessly and spent a majority of his time slashing through useless paperwork that Claude eventually fixed in silent contemplation. He had to hide these bouts of anxiety from his butler—refused to let Claude see him as anything less than capable. And, for a while, the ruse had worked well enough—whenever Alois felt that crushing tidal wave constricting his heart, he would duck away into his office, hands ready to break, tear, and shatter every beautiful thing in sight.

It sickened him—the still perfection of vases and bookcases— the useless ceramic sculptures. Lady Godiva on her pale horse, the shepherd tending to his herd; everything was romanticized through rose colored glass. It left the impression of hope in the viewer's mind; the sweet sentimentality of reconciliation and love. It suffused like perfume, seeping through one's skin, imprinting the earnest image of tangerine sunsets and shadowed hilltops where a man could kiss his lover. A kiss without the veiled rapacity of a selfish Mammon; a kiss that delivered promises similar to dewdrops at dawn. These carved artworks of marble and porcelain insulted him with their hideous unattainability. 

Alois wanted to see them undone; wreck and taint their serene stasis because _what right did they have?_ What right did _anyone_ have to live so peacefully—so tranquilly—while Alois was trapped under the crushing weight of past memories? The fear, the shame, the pain—it set his every nerve on fire and he writhed in that grandiose bed of down feather and silk, whimpering into his satin pillow, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. He wanted to call for Claude—wanted so desperately to see his golden eyes and perfectly tousled black hair—but intimidation, sharp and coiling, choked like thorns in his throat. 

 _Claude, Claude, Claude._ He had looked at Alois with tender reverence. This powerful, almighty creature had looked at _Jim Macken_ with something akin to _affection_ and god, did Alois want to see that look again. Wanted to hear Claude’s eventide cadence murmur _yes, y_ _our_   _highness._ Because when he summoned Claude, when the spider demon cast his web, Alois knew that he was no longer alone. That he would never be alone as long as Claude's eyes remained on him. Everyone he loved left him and once they did, sinister men of evil design came to rape the innocence Alois no longer possessed—each one more terrible than the last. 

The villagers, the destruction, that vile, monstrous old man...they were the shadowed puppets dancing on the fringes of his mind during the day. They were the beasts that clawed beneath his skin at night, daring to break through his painted ivory to show Claude—to show the world—how pathetic he truly was. 

 

Rolling onto his back, Alois stared at the darkness that stretched before him. Watched as the faint shape of the bed’s canopy appeared and, when his eyes watered from the strain, Alois blinked and a crystalline tear ran down either cheek. His lower lip trembled; he felt incomplete—dislocated from the world. He felt the need to cut into his stomach and rip himself inside out because surely, the skin he was wearing did not suit him. Did not fit. 

Was not _right._

With this tempestuous weather and the thunderous black heavens, Alois felt imperceptibly small—fragile, as if he could be crushed and broken and no one would notice. He was disposable in the grand scheme of things. It was then that the paranoia began to creep in; that howling menace at the back of his mind— _alone. You're alone. You've always been alone and there's not a single person in this whole world who loves you._

He grits his teeth, fights back the choked sob in his throat. People love him—or at least  _one_ person does. He  _has_ to. Alois is an earl, he's  _important._ He's the Queen's Spider and he's worth  _something._

But the contumelious whispers—those vindictive hisses of crass cruelty—dance around his mind like drunken satyrs. Nothing—not even when Alois presses his hands against his ears and holds his breath—helps. The chanting won't cease, the doubt increases and builds until— 

“Claude.” He whispered the name, almost inaudibly into the still gloom, but as the words formed—slowly dissipating into the dark obscurity—his chamber doors opened and in came the sole object of his affection, a burning candle in his hand. He looks an elegant Saint Anthony in his finely pressed butler guise. 

Alois felt his heart race, like a relentless hummingbird trapped inside his chest, and his breathing quickened when arctic blue locked on regal gold. “Claude.” Alois repeated in slight disbelief, gently rolling onto his side, fingers grasping at Claude’s pocket watch.

“You called for me your highness?” _His voice._ Alois closed his eyes—it was nightfall and liquified silver, the same silver that slipped between the fingers of the moon princess and dripped to form the stars. “Your highness?” Claude inquired again, leaning down ever so slightly to observe Alois’s face. A faint look of question came upon his countenance. “You’ve been crying.”

“I have not!” He jerked back, practically throwing the pocket watch back at the taller man. “Don’t you dare make such stupid assumptions! I haven’t been crying—I haven’t…why the _fuck_ are you even here?” Alois knows he’s lashing out but god forgive him.

All he wants are Claude’s arms wrapped around his slim form, wants his butler close by his side so nothing could ever harm him again.

But he wants Claude to be proud, too. To look at him as if he was worth something. _Fucking hell,_ he wants Claude to give a damn.

So Alois bites his lip and glares. “I didn’t order you here.” _Please stay._

“You called my name, your highness. Should my name ever leave your lips, I will come to serve and obey.”

Alois trembles and he feels the armament around his heart—a weak, pathetic shield—collapse. “Always?”

Claude looks at him for a beat, expression unreadable. And suddenly, before Alois has time to react, Claude has placed the candle on the nightstand and somehow brought his right hand under Alois’s jaw. He caressed the blonde’s face gently, saffron eyes piercing into his own with such intensity that everything in the room seemed charged with cold lightening. Instinctively, Alois comes to brace himself against Claude’s shoulders, forcing himself to his knees while his butler stands there, right hand cupping his face, and eyes burning into Alois’s soul.

He wants Claude to do something— _anything_ —but mostly, Alois fights back a blush, he just wants Claude to kiss him.

And then, almost without warning, Alois feels Claude’s lips on his. Shock paralyzes him for a brief moment before, with appraising, eager gusto, Alois locks his arms around Claude’s neck and brings him closer. He kisses his gold eyed servant eagerly, tongue demanding entrance into the demon’s mouth. Alois feels a rush of euphoria when he tastes _him_ for the first time. Claude tastes like smoke and honey—with the bitterness of Merlot and the sweetness of marigolds. It’s biting and chilling and oh so wonderful—the same rush one feels when ice water hits the tongue after eating peppermint candy. Cold and stinging and _fuck,_ it makes him feel _alive._

With a burst of inspiration, Alois tightens his hold on Claude’s neck, forcing the butler to bend down onto the bed. His right hand comes to support his weight but Alois will have none of that. He kicks his legs out from under him and wraps them around Claude’s waist; all the while, their tongues are battling for dominance before Claude drags his lips down Alois’s throat, suckling gently along the way. 

It’s the briefest, purest moment of heavenly exchange before Claude raises his head. Alois’s face is flushed a beautiful shade of passion flower pink; his ice-blue eyes are bright and his mouth—red and swollen—demand more affection.

“Your highness.” The butler hums, eyes flickering between Alois and the darkened window before locking eyes with his charge once again. “Does that answer your question?”

“Question?” He can’t remember anything besides _Claude, Claude, Claude._

His butler actually cracks a smile then—a vague smile that connotes a hundred moods—before his forefinger comes, tracing the curve of Alois’s cheek. Leaning in, Claude’s breath tickles his ear but its his words that stimulate Alois to a frenzy.

_Always._

 

Now, as he bleeds out beneath a lush oak tree in some godforsaken woodland, Alois clings to these memories. Memories of Claude—attentive and heedful—kissing, touching, _giving._ All he wants is one look, just _one,_ from the person he loves most in this world. He needs to see that look in Claude’s eyes _one last time._

Golden eyes piercing, their inscrutable depths glowing with hinted admiration and the irises—black as night—sparkle with obedient composure. Claude’s lips are curved in a smile that promises the world to said recipient and for Alois, that smile—those eyes—the comfort…just one last time. _Just one last time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Mammon: in the New Testament of the Bible, this personified money or material wealth; in short, greed and gain.
> 
> \- Satyrs: worshippers of Dionysus (the Greek god of wine/ritual madness) who are also members of his cult. 
> 
> \- Saint Anthony: patron saint of finding things or lost people. 
> 
> A/N: Post-Danse and Alois’s memories. Poor boy. Claude really did know how to play him like a fiddle—as demons do. 
> 
> Feedback appreciated :)


End file.
